


The Case of the Hacked Blogger

by KcLeigh



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: F/M, M/M, Multi, Other
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2019-04-03
Updated: 2019-04-04
Packaged: 2020-01-04 07:29:23
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 3
Words: 2,099
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/18338990
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/KcLeigh/pseuds/KcLeigh
Summary: We all know that John Watson writes a public-facing blog detailing his many adventures with Sherlock Holmes. But not all of his entries are made public. Some he publishes as private entries, intended only for himself: secretive, sometimes salacious, sometimes incredibly sexy, containing his most intimate thoughts and experiences not meant for public view.John discovers evidence that someone has hacked in and learned secrets that could unravel the life he's worked so hard to build.





	1. Chapter 1

John sighed and set his ceramic cup down with a heavy _clack_. Oops, too forceful. This was the only mug he owned. Where to begin? Damn. He didn't want to do this. He took a bite of his apple. Crunching away, he began to hunt and peck at the keys on his laptop. No use putting this off any further.

 

 

**Public Post  -  9th January, 2010**

Right, then. How does a person begin a blog? Seems like a long bio would be a bit dull. But then again, perhaps no one will bother reading this. Perhaps I’d prefer that no one read it. Unflattering things could come to light. Don’t need any random Tom, Dick or Harry walking up to me in the pub saying they’ve read all about my exploits.

My therapist (let’s just call her “E” for anonymity’s sake) has been on about me writing a blog. It’s all a bit embarrassing. You see, I never thought I’d go to a therapist. In my family, it’s just not done. People don’t talk about their feelings, especially in front of, or expressly to, strangers. Seems a bit odd. Trust doesn’t come easily. Talking about feelings comes even less so. But here I go, talking to strangers on the web. Or typing into the void, where nobody will bother to read this drabble.

I was a soldier. A soldier who’s lost many comrades in war, and an additional two from the issues they just couldn’t recover from after returning home. PTSD and depression killed them. I’ve got to keep my head above water. E says writing a blog will help me transition. She also thinks it’ll help break the stigma with soldiers getting therapy after coming home from war. She’s been pestering me relentlessly about it. “It’s a new year, make it a resolution,” she’s suggested. So, let’s get this over with.

My name is John Watson. I’m an army doctor. Was. I was an army doctor. A Captain for the 5th Northumberland Fusiliers. All that’s over with now, and it does me no good to dwell on a circumstance that I can’t change, or so E tells me. So, I’ll concentrate on the present instead of the past.

Right. I’m in London sorting out my affairs. I love it here. Have done ever since I moved from Chelmsford to study medicine at King's College. Before I began service overseas, I trained at St. Bartholomew's and couldn’t imagine being anywhere else. Now that I’ve lived through war in places elsewhere, I never want to leave again.

It’s difficult to keep your chin up, sometimes. I was an army doctor. That was my identity. They sent me to Afghanistan. I got shot and have been invalided home. I’m perfectly capable of practicing medicine still. I’m good under pressure. But I have a limp and once in a rare while I have a tremor in one hand. So there went my ability to serve in the army, and my identity as a surgeon. All in one fell swoop.

And with a soldier’s pension London neighborhoods are quite firmly out of my price range. But the thought of returning home with my tail between my legs is distasteful. I’ve no close family to go to. My army chums were my best mates, my support system. But as I said, I lost some on the battlefield and more to the inability to get help afterwards. The stigma. Maybe E is right. Maybe if the two friends I lost (one to suicide, one to addiction) had had help, they’d still be here? We’ll never know. There I go, dwelling on the past. I can practically see E frowning at me, writing “depression” alongside the words “trust issues” on that clipboard that she thinks I can’t read upside down.

This is not supposed to happen to me. This is not the man I wanted to be. What am I? Need to figure that out. Or “redefine me” as E says. Whatever that means. For now, I’m John Watson. And my life is currently a bit shite. One-room rental, few prospects, couldn’t possibly be more single, and I walk with a blasted limp that makes me reliant on a cane. I hate the damned thing. I bloody despise it.

Out to pound the pavement this morning. Slowly, and with a limp, damn it all. I’ve found three flat listings that look somewhat promising. Never thought I’d be looking for a spare room in my thirties, but here we are. If I could just stay in London, that’d be one thing figured out.

Just reread this. How horridly dull. See, E? I did tell you. Nothing happens to me.


	2. Chapter 2

**Private Post - 17th January, 2010**  

I miss being horny. Most ridiculous thing I’ve ever had to admit to myself. I miss seeing a woman, thinking _oh, she’s fit_ , and feeling heat on my face. I miss vibrations thrumming through my body in anticipation of touching and being touched. I miss wanting to have sex. That feeling of being out with someone and feeling anxious and excited for what’s to come. The way their clothes hit their body and how good they smell making me want to push them in a dark alley and up against a wall, rather than waiting until we get back to one of our flats. Fuck, I miss seeing a sexy stranger in public and having an inconvenient erection I have to hide. Never thought I’d miss that.

Fuck. I don’t just miss sex. Or feeling attraction to someone. I miss feeling attractive.

I haven’t had that feeling since James. That’s long over now. We keep in touch occasionally. After we parted ways, he went through so much hardship of his own. What we have now is some sort of strange friendship, stretched like a string so tight it hums when plucked; thin, strained, waiting to snap under too much pressure. And yet there’s a tether between us now that will probably always exist due to mutual admiration and respect, even now when all romantic ties have been permanently severed.

It shouldn’t have begun in the first place. Both of us could have been disciplined, or even discharged, had our...dalliance? ...come to light. I was flattered, I suppose, that my commanding officer’s eyes lingered on me. There never was attraction there on my end. I’m not gay. And I think James knew that. But I was just so damned lonely. He looked at me like he wanted me. The attention felt good. 

And then he kissed me out of nowhere, and touched me like he cared about me. I pushed him away. He apologized over and over. The worst part wasn’t trying to persuade him that I forgave him, or that we never had to speak of it to anyone. It wasn't reassuring him through my actions that I even after he gave in for a moment on impulse, he's still one of the most virtuous and admirable men I've ever had the fortune to meet.

The worst part is feeling like people don’t look at me that way anymore. No one looks at me with heat in their eyes. They notice my limp and my cane. And their eyes fill with pity. Their smiles become too wide and forced. Their voices become sharp and brittle with fake brightness when they speak to me.

And that’s the most action I’ve had from another person in years. Pathetic. I’m sitting here after bringing lotion in the shower and trying until the water ran cold. Even when I’m alone, something's off. 

Fuck.

 

P.S. I must have checked the privacy setting on this post ten times before I had the courage to save it. Hands were shaking a bit. Was remotely terrified that a glitch would make this visible to anyone. But it feels nice to get it out. It's depressing. But nice. Somehow. 


	3. Chapter 3

John limped over to the desk in his rental and set down his mug, more carefully this time.  _It's been over a week since I posted,_ he thought to himself. And absolutely nothing had changed. There was Macallan 12 in his Royal Army Medical Corps mug rather than his usual breakfast tea. Other than that, same routine. John had woken up in a sweat from nightmares of blood and screaming. He'd showered quickly before the pain in his leg got too bad. He'd went to see Ella Thompson for his weekly therapy session. The woman was persistent and commanding. She'd have been an asset to the armed forces. She'd praised John for beginning work on the blog while somehow also berating him for not posting more frequently. The past few days had been grating. His morning therapy appointment had been the cherry on top of a dissatisfying and thoroughly exasperating sundae. He took a sip of the Scotch and opened his laptop. 

Fine. Better to get it over with.

 

**Public Post - 29th January, 2010**

What a disaster. All three flats simply weren’t options. Let me tell you about how well it went over:

1st flat – Bit of a dodgy area of South Bank, which I could ignore since I can handle myself and the rent was so low. I don’t even know where to begin. I was greeted at the front door by a tall blond man wearing a crop top with a belly button ring. No issues there, I fully support LGBTQ rights and have done since my sister came out to me at fifteen. But he kept singing ABBA, despite the presence of a stranger. Well, singing is being kind. Screeching was more like it. Apparently, he’s an “actor” who’s just working at Pret until his career takes off. Clearly he appreciated having a captive audience. And in that moment, I did feel very much the captive. He said he was prepping for an audition, and said “at least you’ll get many free concerts here, mate” as he chucked me on the arm.

He passed me off to a young woman, who was to give me a tour of the place. Pixielike, kind eyes. When we got to the kitchen an awful smell hit me: acidic, foul. My eyes watered and my skin began to itch.

“Oh, don’t mind that,” she said.

“It’s just the cats. One is getting on, he’s 13 now. Has a little accident on occasion”

“But, on the phone I asked if you had pets. You said no.”

“Oh, they aren’t pets. They’re emotional support animals.”

“Right, well that doesn’t make me any less allergic to them.”

“You’re allergic to cats?” I could feel my airway begin to swell and stifled the urge to cough and sneeze.

“Absolutely.”

“Well, maybe the chemist’s could give you a little something.” Uugh, what a waste of tube fare.

 

2nd flat – 4th floor walkup with no lift. My leg was killing me but I soldiered on. Two lovely young things opened the door. A brunette _and_ a redhead. These were to be my flatmates? I couldn’t believe my luck. Four floors were looking pretty easy, if those girls would be at the top of them. I’ve never had trouble with the ladies. Easy conversationalist, learned how to be a bit charming when I want to be. Being both a doctor and in the army never hurt, either. The tour was going splendidly. Good size living room, tidy, with nice furnishings. The bedroom was more than serviceable. They kept giggling at my jokes. I was feeling encouraged until I went to leave, when I met the next potential tenant at the door. He was immensely tall and muscular. The guy frankly looked like a film star. I received a text two hours later that the flat was no longer available.

 

3rd flat – One word: rats.

 

It's early afternoon, and I need a mental break. Secretly (well, now not so secretly) I’ve always loved old anatomy books. When I began studying to be a doctor, my mum gave me a lovely old copy of Gray’s Anatomy, and it sparked the collector’s spirit in me. They’re the only thing I collect. I travel very light, but I’ve never been able to part with my rare and antique books. On weekends I’d wander happily around crowded, dusty little shops in Bloomsbury to find treasures, then sit in the park and read before meeting my mates at the pub for drinks.  

Think I'll pop out and visit my favorite old bookshops. Maybe get the lamb green curry from that place right round the corner from the museum. Hopefully the restaurant is still open. I'm starving. 


End file.
